Finding the Cat
by arcadie
Summary: [two part fic] What Dean and I have isn't romance; it isn't even friendship. It's less than that and more than that. We just understand each other in a fundamental way that no one else does.


_Disclaimer: _I don't own.

_Author's Note: _A two part story. After watching the second movie (_again_) I feel like a lot of the times the undertones of friendship between Julie and Portman is overlooked in fandom (all thanks to that stupid "Speak for yourself, babe" scene. That messed a lot of things up.) This story mainly focuses on Julie, her past, and the way she and Portman just understand each other in a fundamental way. Enjoy-

**oo Finding the Cat oo**

**oo Part One oo**

There was always something about Portman and me that drew us to one another. It wasn't romance; I don't even think it's even friendship, what we have. It's less than that and more than that. We understand each other in a fundamental way that no one else does and it binds us together like kinsmen. Somehow we manage to meet on the most basic plane. It's unlikely, I know.

My whole life I've lived by the rules. I've never broken curfew, I've never skipped class. Now that I think of it, I don't think I've even ever really stayed up past eleven o' clock. People think that's boring or that I have no life outside of hockey and schoolwork but I thrive on it. I thrive on the mundane, predictable schedule of waking up, brushing my teeth, eating breakfast, going to school, coming home, going to sleep, and having to do it all over again. I don't do well with surprises. One little bump along the way and I'm completely unhinged. People who don't know me, or even people that do, are surprised. They think I'm more stable than that but they don't know that it doesn't take a lot to get me unglued. I worry about that sometimes but instead of dwelling on it, I immerse myself into my much practiced schedule of life and pray that there won't be any manholes and speed bumps along the way.

If my life was truly a physical road that you could touch, it would probably be well worn pavement. It would be a sidewalk; it wouldn't even be a car road. It would be the type of sidewalk that has no grass growing in between the slabs of pavement. It would be one monotonous shade of gray stretching completely straight as far as the eye could see until it merged with the horizon.

That road was my life until I turned fourteen. Then my road crashed, rebelled, and merged with another one. The other road was bumpy; it was full of rocks and it was a messy dirt road for bicyclists or SUVs in commercials. It was a stereotypical rugged terrain. It's obvious now who this road belongs to: Dean Portman.

If I've lived my whole life by rules, Dean Portman has lived his life by only one rule: break the rules. It's a paradox, or an oxymoron, one of those things, if you really think about it, but Dean doesn't care of labels so I suppose I shouldn't put one on him. I remember the first time we met. My initial reaction wasn't disgust, it wasn't attraction, it was just...nothing. You would expect that if you were to meet your soul mate, as much as I hate to use that term, there would be some sort of fanfare, fireworks, _something_ to indicate that yes, at this very moment your life is going to change.

But it wasn't really like that at all.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

My mom and I don't get along. I wish we did, I really do. I know every girl wants the "us against the world" friendship with their moms but I would settle for even understanding one another. We don't match at what seems like every level of being. She hates the color green and I love it. I had my room painted that color to her dismay. She loves the Bronte sisters and I couldn't, for the life of me, read _Jane Eyre_, _Wuthering Heights_, or _Agnes Grey_. My mom also hates cats and, fittingly enough, that was the nickname given to me.

She's disapproved of my playing hockey even though it has gotten me recognition and scholarships from colleges even when I wasn't even in high school. I know even if I didn't work at school and my grades aren't stellar, I wouldn't have a problem being scouted by a college who needed a boost in their woman's hockey team.

The ironic part is, she's really what got me started. When I was five, she, my dad, and I went to her family's farm in Missouri where there was a frozen lake on her parent's property. There she strapped on some skates and put some on me and pushed me onto the ice and the rest, I guess, is history.

I love the ice. There's people who can probably live and breathe water and are part mermaids. You know, the type who learn how to swim before they can walk and they stay in the water for hours with a snorkel or with a surfboard. Well, I'm like that too, except my preferred water happens to be frozen.

I'm clumsy without my skates. I trip over my own feet and have to really watch where I'm going. With my skates and on the ice, I can instinctively feel the movement around me and I know without looking who's next to me and who's behind me. I feel more comfortable with the ice skates strapped onto my feet. When I was younger, I used to scream and cry when my mom tried to get me to take them off. Once I kept my skates on for a week, with the guards on, and tried to walk around the house that way.

My mom didn't mind the skating. She had aspirations from the beginning for me to be a figure skater. She had been one herself and could have even made it to the Olympics had she not sprained her ankle during the most crucial season of training. It's a sob story, I know, and my mom constantly reminds me.

"I lost my opportunity, but you won't. You'll go where I never could and that'll make me happy for the rest of my life," she used to say, grabbing my hand earnestly. I went along with the figure skating lessons, for her sake, but hated it. You have to be limber and glide along the surface of the ice. You have to be birdlike and fragile and thin. What I needed was contact with the ice. When I skated, I didn't skim the surface like how my mom and my coaches wanted me to. Instead, I almost dug into the ice, feeling every groove and bump of the surface. My lessons became full of nothing but lectures from my instructor who claimed that I wasn't listening to a word she said. I listened; I just chose not to obey her. Usually I do something even if I didn't particularly want to because the authority told me to. I was the most obedient child but something about skating made me rebel. I couldn't go against what seemed like my very _nature_ was telling me to do.

So sometimes, when my private lessons became too unbearable to watch, my mom would leave in the middle of the three hour session and I would be left alone to walk home. It frustrates me even now how she could be that irresponsible as a mother and how she could leave an eight year old child like that but she did.

I would gather my things, hesitating to take off my skates, and walk along a little dirt path to pass by a good sized lake, hoping it would be frozen by now. When it was, though, there were a good number of people there. I would watch until every last one of them left and then I would strap on my skates and do laps until it got so dark I could hardly see my hand in front of my face. Those times were for me and I thought I was alone until one day, I saw a boy about my age approach me as I got ready to leave.

"You skate pretty good," he said. I studied him in the dimming light and tried to size him up. I've always been big for my age, another lament of my mother who remained with a figure of a baby bird her whole life, so I figured I could take this guy on if he wanted trouble.

"Pretty well," I corrected, finally relaxing when I saw no malice in his dark eyes.

"Whatever. Listen, me and my friends play hockey here and we're always odd so we could use the extra player." _My friends and I_ rested on my tongue but I didn't want to corrected him again and risk annoying him.

"I don't know the first thing about hockey," I protested. "I'm a figure-skater." The boy made a disdainful noise.

"Girls," he said, scornfully. "Well you don't have to do much if you're goalie, right? Just stop the pucks."

"Goalie?" I had never thought of myself as a hockey player but I suddenly had a vision of me standing in front of the goal, easily plucking all the pucks out of the air and I smiled. I liked it a lot better than the fantasy of being a ballerina on ice that my mom forced on me every night.

"When do you guys play?" I asked. And after that, I met those boys a good four times a week to play and, to tell the truth, I had a knack for being a goalie from the beginning. Or maybe the boys I played with just weren't that good at hockey. Either way, I could easily stop the pucks. More than skill or beginner's luck, it just felt _right_ to be standing there, facing the game. I felt removed and part of the chaos at the same time. I could get as passionate as I wanted to and still keep the level-headed sensibility that I carried around with me like a security blanket. In short, it was bliss.

Even if the hockey bit came easy, the acceptance didn't come quite as easily.

"Who's the new player, Curly?" the boys asked. I followed, uncharacteristically meekly, in Curly's shadow, the boy who basically scouted me.

"Her name's Julie and she's going to be the goalie," Curly said, his voice already defensive.

"A _girl_?" one of the boys said, witheringly. "She'll probably start crying the minute we start playing."

"And why would I do that," I snapped.

"Because girls are wussies," another one said. I rolled up my pant leg to show a twisting scar around my shin.

"I got that one after my bike broke and the chain cut through my leg. It bled all six blocks it took to walk home and I didn't cry once." Half of the boys looked convinced; the other half still looked at me disdainfully or with disbelief.

"Come on guys, just watch her play and we'll decide then if she's good or not," Curly said, holding up his hands for peace. The boys grudgingly agreed and we played. And I conquered. And it felt glorious. When we were leaving, I said, "You guys don't believe me again and I'll punch your face in!" In my nine-year-old brain, that seemed like a reasonable threat. Everyone else laughed appreciatively and punched my arm as I left. I looked forward to the days when we would play and on days when I didn't play, I felt irritable and cranky.

And after I got my first taste of hockey, my figure skating lessons became more and more unbearable until I walked out on my coach and announced to my mom that night that I was quitting. She yelled at me, then cried, and yelled some more all in rapid succession. My dad tried to calm her to no avail. My mom told me that I was growing up into a headstrong, hopeless adult. I was only nine at the time.

Later that night, when my mom had locked herself up in her room, I told my dad, as maturely as I could, that I was going to try out as goalie for the local children's hockey team. He asked me if that's what I really wanted and I said yes. My dad didn't have a problem with it. He just regarded me carefully and when he saw my absolute iron will to become a goalie, he smiled.

"And to think that I was disappointed that I didn't have a son," he said, chucking my chin. I grinned back.

"I've got something much better," he said. "I've got you, Julie."

The next day, my dad figured out when try-outs for the local team would be and he drove me to them. He sat in the stands and didn't leave once even though the tryouts were well over three hours. And when it was my turn to step onto the ice, he cheered. I remember thinking that I really _should_ be terrified but feeling completely at peace.

Normally, if I saw everyone else looking so prepared with the right attire and confidence, I would have felt inferior at least a little bit. But I was too excited at the prospect of actually playing hockey for real that I couldn't care less that I was just dressed in sweats and was wearing the light, white skates of figure-skaters. I was also the only girl there. I stepped onto the ice when my name was called and the coach came up to me, a clipboard in his hand.

"What position do you normally play?" he asked.

"Position?" I was puzzled for one of the first times in my life.

"What do you do, honey?" Despite his outward gruff appearance, I could inherently feel that he had a real appreciation for kids and I, in turn, appreciated that. You don't find a lot of adults these days who genuinely like children, to be honest.

"When I play with some boys, I'm the goalie."

"You any good?"

"I'm alright." The coach laughed and ruffled my hair a little bit.

"Show me what you can do." And I did. I found that I could stop all of these boys' shots just like when I played on the ice. It just felt natural to have my hand, in the borrowed glove since I didn't own one myself (I would borrow one of my friends' when I played for fun), make contact with the puck, making a satisfying smacking noise. The coach motioned for me to come over.

"You're more than alright, girlie, you're just what the team needs."

"I'm on the team?" I could hardly believe it. I didn't _want_ to believe it in case this would all just be some dream.

"Shoot, girl, I could hardly let you go," the coach scoffed. I gave him a hug, which surprised him I think, and I skated over to my dad.

"I made it!" That was probably one of the best moments in my life and my dad jumped up, looking ridiculous pumping his fist into the air but I didn't care. I just made the hockey team and I finally felt connected to at least one of my parents.

Don't get me wrong, though, my mom rebelled every damn step of the way and it was beyond obnoxious. When she realized that she was fighting a losing battle, she switched gears and found anything and everything else to pick apart about me.

My mom says I changed drastically as I became a teenager, that I started becoming very self-assured in the way that it could eventually lead to self destruction, like hubris, I suppose. She reminisces, in front of me, of the good old days when I was just a little, sweet child and now I was this boorish, manlike young woman who insisted on hiding herself in sexless clothes off the ice. She used to dress me in the most insensible things. I remember wearing a dress to school and little dress shoes when it was raining out, and then getting chastised by my mom when I came home for getting my clothes dirty.

The first thing I bought for myself was a pair of jeans. Honestly, there must be fundamentally wrong about a mother that doesn't let her child buy a pair of jeans. I bought them with the money that I had saved up from tutoring children in the neighborhood and working in a paper route job in the morning. It was my third victory against my mom, my first quitting figure-skating and the second trying out for the hockey team.

She wouldn't speak to me for a week after I wore the same pair of jeans to school for the whole week. To be honest, she's childish, for a mom. I don't remember her really being a mother to me _ever. _The only thing she really wanted me for was my hopeful figure-skating career. She wanted to live vicariously through me but when I refused her that, I don't think she really saw a use for me at all. So instead of just plain leaving me alone, she became a nuisance.

After jobs of tutoring, babysitting, and the paper route, along with some twenty dollar bills that my dad would palm me with a wink, I managed to buy the rest of the wardrobe of what I wear today. My mom hates all the cargoes and flannel shirts and cotton t-shirts. Honestly, I don't mind all of those...girl things, but it seems so trivial. Even if I didn't do hockey, I don't think I would have been interested in pedicures, magazines, and hair...things. It's a waste of my time. The only reason why I even bothered to keep my hair long was so my mom wouldn't get on my case for _that_.

My hockey flourished under some real coaching and according to Coach Marlin, I was unstoppable. He was the first coach to dub me "The Cat." I liked it and I was extremely proud of it. I always admired cats for their grace and their sense of humor. Most cat haters find them arrogant but when you _really_ look into their eyes, may it be golden, blue, or green ones, you can tell that in actuality they're really just humoring the world _and_ themselves. They don't take themselves that seriously; they don't take life that seriously. They are more carefree than dogs, I think. They are always so anxious to please everyone. It also helped that my mom hated cats and it gave me some strange pleasure in being called one.

From the Pee Wee hockey team, I got picked up by a more prestigious all girl team. We won the state championships two years in a row. And in the summer when I turned fourteen, my coach informed me that I was going to be given the opportunity of a lifetime.

My coach had been approached by one Mr. Tibbles who informed both my coach and me that he was from the company that was to sponsor the Junior Goodwill Games hockey team. I honestly didn't see where all of this was heading, at first. He started telling me about some kids, my age, who were a team called the Ducks. To be honest, I think my coach was kind of tuning him out. I listened, rapturously, however. It was like a fairy tale; a group of kids who couldn't play hockey worth anything were suddenly changed into Pee Wee champions in their state. And this was all thanks to a miracle worker by the name of Gordon Bombay.

This Gordon Bombay would also be coaching the Junior Goodwill Games hockey team and the Ducks would be part of the team and then, with a sparkle in his eyes, Mr. Tibbles informed me that he wanted _me_ to be part of the team as well.

"Excuse me?" I spluttered. "Me?! Why?!" Mr. Tibbles looked a bit taken aback.

"I would find it obvious," he said. "You're the best goalie this country has to offer." That I seriously doubted and Mr. Tibbles could read the uncertainty and disbelief on my face.

"I've heard stories about you, Julie," he said. "You've the reflexes of a cat and an attitude to match." I flushed and looked down.

"So what do you say?" How could I say no?

But the road leading to becoming a part of Team U.S.A. was harder than that. My mom was adamantly against it, maybe just because _I _wanted to go so badly.

"Are you insane?" my mom demanded. "To first go to Minnesota to train and then all the way to Los Angeles with a bunch of boys? Think of the things that could happen!"

"I thought you said boys didn't like me because I was masculine," I said, wryly. My mom ignored me, something she had grown to become quite good at.

"To be the only girl among a team of boys...No, I won't have it."

"There is another girl on the team," I pointed out. It was true; Mr. Tibbles had assured me that there was another girl on the team who I could room with in the dorms at Los Angeles.

"And imagine what sort of girl she is if she's on a hockey team," my mom sniffed.

"Actually Mr. Tibbles told me she was really pretty." That part of a lie but I dismissed the lying since I was able to contradict my mom.

"And what sort of name is "Tibbles" anyway? This man is a fraud! You're not going and that's final!" After my mom left the room, I just grounded my heels deeper into the ground. The more determined she was not to send me, the more determined I became to go.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Dad, I was approached today by a scout. Or more specifically, he was from the company that's sponsoring Team U.S.A. for the Junior Goodwill Games." I was bringing up the subject during dinner, which was an unspoken taboo among the family. It was supposed to be a very shaky peacetimes between my mom and me and by openly talking about hockey, I was basically declaring war.

"What's a sponsor doing approaching you?" my dad asked, quizzically. I had pondered the same question myself.

"I think he's a bit of an everyman," I said. "He's in charge of a lot of things and one of those things I guess is rounding up some kids around the country to join the team. The core of the team is going to be made up of the coach's old Pee Wee team."

"They hired a coach of a _Pee Wee_ team for the Junior Goodwill Games?" my dad asked, incredulously.

"I didn't believe it either," I admitted. "But Mr. Tibbles showed me the articles. It's because the coach has a story behind him that can sell products, but he seems to know his stuff. He took a bunch of inner-city kids who didn't know the first thing about hockey and led them to win the Minnesota Pee Wee championships."

"So what's he want with you?" I grinned; this was the part I wanted to get to.

"He wants me on the team!" My dad nearly spit his water back out.

"What? Really? That's fantastic!"

"So can I go? I have to go to Minnesota to train and then to Los Angeles to compete."

"Go? Is there really a decision to be made?" At that point, my dad couldn't ignore the glares my mom was sending his way.

"Well, darling," my dad said, touching the napkin to his lips. "Your mom and I will have to talk it over first." He slipped me a wink which showed that he had no objections. I was flying high. I was going to be a part of Team U.S.A.

You can only imagine the fight that night. I could hear it all the way from across the hall and two closed doors. I didn't know _what_ my dad said but it was settled. I was going. And somehow, my mom did a 180 and surprised me by being thrilled at the idea, now. A little _too_ thrilled.

For the next two months I listened to nothing but my mom continuously gushing over how exciting this was and how this was a trial run, a preview, of what it would be like when I left home for good. Somehow I didn't miss the fact that this wasn't a sad affair at all. She wanted it to be as much as I did. We really did try to get along. I really wanted to like her, you have no idea. We just didn't understand each other in any sense of the word.

So as much as I wanted to miss home, I couldn't help feeling something of relief myself as I packed up. My dad and my mom would only fight when it concerned me so I thought that my absence would actually be a good thing for their marriage. As I packed, I realized that maybe my mom _did_ have a point about the things I wore. I noticed that I had packed five flannel shirts that looked basically the same except that they were different colors and three cargoes that were varied ever so slightly in color from khaki to faded green. It was ugly, I admit. But what use was there really to make myself pretty when all I was going to do was go to the library and study or something?

I figured it must have been my mom influencing me, or brainwashing me as I liked to think of it, and shut my suitcase with a defiant snap and lugged the thing downstairs. The dinner I ate before I left was surreal. My dad had been talking, my mom had been nodding along like a bobble head doll and cooing over how _exciting_ this all was and I remember quite distinctly that I didn't really register any of their words.

I mean, I could _see_ their mouths moving and I knew they were talking but it was just in one ear and out the other. I don't think I was ever as glad as I was that day to board my night flight and sit alone in the cramped economy class, even with the middle-aged guy sitting next to me, whose shiny, hairy arm with the thick gold watch kept digging into mine as we silently fought for the armrest.

I watched Maine become indistinguishable in the darkness as the plane rose into the air. I was anxious to land and anxious to skate again. I wanted to meet my new team members. To be honest, I had mixed feelings about the girl on the team. I usually get along better with guys than with girls but I figured that we must have _something_ in common if we were both on the same hockey team. So with those thoughts in mind, I finally fell asleep, forfeiting the armrest to the victorious guy next to me.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Julie Gaffney!" Mr. Tibbles met me at the airport. He seemed to be single-handedly putting the whole team together. He loaded me up into his limousine, which I found a little extravagant for picking up one grungy fourteen-year-old tomboy but hey, I wasn't really complaining either.

"How was the flight?" I shrugged.

"It was okay. I just want to skate."

"That's what I like to hear!" he exclaimed. There was something very silly about Mr. Tibbles. Maybe it was his name but I couldn't take him too seriously. He was too enthusiastic. Too...too something.

"First I'm going to take us to the hotel where the rest of the motley team members are staying. Of course the Ducks are just living at home right now since it's their state and everything. Are you jetlagged?"

"Hardly."

"Then how about I take you and the rest of the gang over to an ice rink and you all show me what you can do?" It sounded fantastic.

The hotel was really nice. I suppose I should have been expecting it to be since Mr. Tibbles was having me driven around in a limousine but still. I followed him into the lobby, feeling a little bit out of place in my faded cargoes and white shirt that was a little stretched and a little worn from the plane trip. I smoothed my hair down, trying to look more presentable to invisible eyes.

As Mr. Tibbles was checking me in, I noticed an Asian boy sitting at the hotel bar. He appeared to be only drinking a Coke but I didn't even know that kids under twenty-one were allowed in bars, even in hotels. Mr. Tibbles returned to my side and followed my gaze.

"Oh! That's one of your team members right there! Kenny! Come over here!" I winced. Mr. Tibbles seemed too loud at the moment. The Asian boy came over, Coke still in hand.

"This is our goalie. Julie Gaffney from Maine." The other boy gave me a half smile and offered his hand. I shook it; it was cold from the Coke I presume.

"Where's everyone else?" Mr. Tibbles asked him. Kenny shrugged.

"Uh let's see." He had a quiet voice but something told me he wasn't an introvert. "Dwayne's in his room reading, Luis is playing games in the hotel arcade, and I don't know where Portman is." Mr. Tibbles gave an exasperated sigh.

"Well, we're all going to go to the ice, so how about it?" Kenny nodded and said he'd go get the others.

"But what about...Portman?" I asked.

"He'll know where we are. I just wish he wouldn't..." Mr. Tibbles stopped talking and gave me a side-long glance as though he had been saying things he shouldn't have been.

"Right then. Why don't we get you settled? We'll meet the others in the lobby." I followed Mr. Tibbles to the elevators. As Mr. Tibbles had planned, we did meet the others and Mr. Tibbles called his chauffer. While we waited at the curb for the limousine, I got a good look at my other team members.

Dwayne looked genuinely nice although his almost caricature cowboy act would need to get used to. Luis was a good-looking boy from Miami, Florida, according to Mr. Tibbles, and he had a sometimes self-deprecating sense of humor. The whole ride to the ice rink, he entertained us with humorous stories of instances concerning the fact that he can't stop on skates. I found that puzzling since it's kind of like learning how to fly without learning how to land. They go hand in hand, or so I thought.

We started warming up at the ice rink, doing laps, but I think we all knew what we _really_ wanted to be doing. Then, Dwayne, Luis, and Kenny all took turns taking shots at me and I was impressed. The pucks came hard and fast. I was working hard for what seemed like the first time. Even during the Maine state championships, everything felt instinctive and natural but this was different. These guys really were good. It felt thrilling and I thrived on a challenge.

Mr. Tibbles regarded us with respect and told us he liked what he saw. We were at the arena for over a hour when a tall, brawny boy who I presumed to be this Portman finally graced us with his presence. He skated over and Mr. Tibbles introduced us.

"Julie Gaffney? Meet Dean Portman." I just shook his hand, nodding and already my mind was wandering. I gave him a quick look and I unconsciously categorized him into one of the types of hockey players I've known. He looked as though he would play rough and enjoy every minute of it. After I had done this, I didn't give him a second thought.

After practice, I sat down and stretched my legs in front of me, making sure to work through any cramps. Dean skated up and sat down next to me. I could feel his eyes on me even without turning my head.

"What?" I asked him, pointedly. "Is it that surprising to see a girl play hockey?" Dean smiled a little bit although it looked more like a wince.

"Well to be honest, babe, yes." My inner feminist was rising.

"Most girls don't like to be called babe, you know, the pig reference," I pointed out.

"Sorry, babe." Now I knew he was just saying it to get a rise out of me.

"You were late," I said.

"Is that a crime?" he challenged.

"No but it is bad manners." Dean gave a hoot of laughter.

"Mr. Tibbles doesn't appreciate it either," I said. I didn't mention the fact that I didn't think Mr. Tibbles really liked the boy sitting next to me.

"What do you think of Tibbles?" Dean asked. I found that a strange question, even more so coming from him. I almost never really _think_ about authority figures and who they are. I see them more as just people to please, people to respect.

"Why?" I could feel him shrug next to me.

"Just wondering." I thought, _really_ thought for a minute what I thought about the somewhat goofy older man.

"He's not as friendly as he might seem," I finally said. "I mean, I'm not trying to say he's evil or anything but he knows where to draw the line between work and play."

"And if we don't perform up to par he's gonna sack us," Dean said. I finally looked over and saw what looked almost like worry in his expression.

"We won't," I pointed out. "You heard him. We're the top kids in the state. If anyone's going to get fired, I would suspect that it's the coach."

"Oh yeah, who's this Coach Bombay anyway?" I shrugged.

"He must be pretty good if he's going to be coaching us. Dean Portman, right? Where you from?"

"Chicago. You would know if you were listening." Normally I would feel immediately defensive at a comment like that but when I looked over, there wasn't any malice in his face and almost immediately I felt the tension in my body release like hot air.

"Yeah? Never been there. I'm from Maine." Dean smiled at me crookedly.

"Well we've got something in common then. I've never been to Maine." I blinked slowly, noticing that my eyes had gone painfully dry.

"Fortunately," I said, dryly. Dean gave a short laugh that sounded like a bark.

"I don't like Tibbs much, either," he said.

"I never said-"I started, but Dean cut me off.

"Don't try to deny it, babe," he said, holding up his hands. What an ego this boy had! First assuming my opinions and then calling me 'babe' within the five minutes we met, doing both in the same breath.

"What do you think of the other guys?"

"What is this, an interrogation? Or are you just a gossip?" Dean laughed again.

"Just curious, I guess."

"What do _you _think about them?" I asked back.

"Feisty, are we?" he said, smirking. "They're alright. Good kids."

"I agree, Grandfather," I said. It didn't slip my attention that Dean wasn't the goon that I initially pegged him as.

"I can't wait to meet the other kids, the Ducks," I said.

"Any reason in particular? Scoping out some cute guys?" I gave a short laugh.

"Hardly. I just want to see what they're like. I heard they've got a girl on the team so I guess you'd be doing some scoping out yourself."

"I don't see why I couldn't do some right now." He was teasing again, or maybe even flirting, but it didn't feel like it. And I don't know how I knew it but I knew that he felt it wasn't quite flirting either.

"Do you use that line on all the girls you meet?" I challenged.

"Just to ones that catch my interest," Dean said. After a moment, he said, "You don't seem scared of me." I looked him up and down.

"No," I said. "Should I be?"

"To be honest, babe, maybe. Most girls like you don't give guys like me the time of day."

"Girls like me, huh? And what kind of girls would that be? Strange, masculine ones that like to play hockey?"

"I was going to say obedient, preppy ones," he answered, wryly.

"Well, I'm not like that," I said. Dean snorted with disbelief.

"I mean, I _am _pretty obedient," I admitted. "But I don't know, I'm not that kind of girl. I've had my share of fights so you can be assured that I'm not scared of you." I stretched languidly. It felt so easy talking to this boy that I had just met. I usually never achieved this level of comfort around most of my friends. Maybe it was because I was so content from playing hockey or something. Realizing how comfortable didn't even unnerve me like it normally would have.

"What did Mr. Tibbles call you?"

"The Cat," I said. "It's my nickname."

"Based on what? Your kitten soft fur?" I laughed.

"My first hockey coach called me that because of my reflexes I guess. It stuck and I made sure it did since my mom hates cats." Dean looked at me a little quizzically.

"Not a little momma's girl?"

"Hardly. Let's just say we don't get along. What about you and your parents?"

"About as boring as it can get. Occasionally they give me slag about this," he tugged on his pierced ear. "Or this," he pointed to a tattoo on his upper arm. "But they usually leave me alone. They were just disappointed that I didn't keep up appearances for their dinner parties."

"Sounds ritzy," I said.

"Maybe but that life isn't for me."

"So you picked up the "rebellious, devil-may-care attitude endowed teen" way of life?" Dean laughed.

"Yeah, I guess so. What about you?"

"Product of pure suburbia nation. It's hell but at the same time, it's the best way to get raised. You're middle class and you have to work for everything you get. I had a paper route, tutored kids in the neighborhood, and babysat growing up."

"Yeah? I'll keep that in mind. You know you're not too bad for a prep girl." I scoffed.

"And you're not too bad for a goon." Dean got up and gave me what seemed like a cross between a wave and a salute.

"See you around." I waved a little bit. When I watched him disappear through the doors to the locker room, I felt something a little bit like remorse, relief, contentment, and nothing really like any of those. I'm not introverted but I'm not as outspoken as people think I am. I don't say _half_ the things I said to Dean to friends I've known since elementary school. I admit, he was easy to talk to and I enjoyed that conversation, despite his tendency to act macho.

I pulled on my skate guards and started talking to the locker room. My mind was full of excitement for what was coming. According to Mr. Tibbles, we would be meeting the rest of the team tomorrow and I was in Minnesota, training to be the goalie for Team U.S.A. When I got off the plane, I hadn't the faintest idea that it was going to turn out to be such a good day.

I changed and walked outside, enjoying the last few rays of the sun on my face. For the first time in my life, I felt content.

**oo End Part One oo**


End file.
